


The Real Thing

by AK_Vintage



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Full Monty (1997)
Genre: Anyelle, Belle/Gaz - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Gazelle - Freeform, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AK_Vintage/pseuds/AK_Vintage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winner of the 2016 Espenson Award for Best Anyelle in the Gazelle category!</p><p>When Nathan invites Gaz to the upcoming Meet the Teacher Night at his school, Gaz takes it as a sign that maybe his son is starting to form a better opinion of his worth as a father and immediately agrees to attend. Miss French, however, is nothing like he expected. Perhaps the most notorious womanizer in Sheffield has finally met his match. </p><p>Takes place starting just a few days after the beginning of The Full Monty and will continue throughout and beyond the timeline of the film. Rating will likely go up later on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

“Fucking hell,” Gaz Schofield muttered to himself as he stalked down the sidewalk, puffing hot air into his hands before shoving them into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. He’d not planned on being out after sundown tonight, not when the last dredges of winter still seemed determined to cling to the night air, leaving everything glazed with a thin layer of ice by morning. Now that he was, he wished he’d thrown a pair of gloves into his pocket.

Just one more thing to add to the list of things he’d managed to cock up that day, he thought, scowling.

Gaz kept his eyes trained on the passing pavement as he made his way, as quickly as he could, from his flat to the school on the other side of town, his shoulders braced high against the wind. He’d tried calling Lomper in the hopes of bumming a ride there and avoiding this whole mess, but the bastard had given him some piss-poor excuse about needing to spend the evening looking after his mum (“I’ve been away all day every day, rehearsing with you! I can’t be gone at night all the time, too!”), and now, he was going to be late.

He glanced at his wrist watch and gritted his teeth against another stream of curses. Scratch that. He was already late.

It was the first time since the divorce that Nathan had invited him to a school event. Meet the Teacher Night, he’d said. Normally, Mandy went to these things on her own, or more recently, with perfect-bloody-Barry in tow, and Gaz only found out that they had taken place several days after the fact when she made a snide comment about his absence while he was picking Nathe up for his weekend visit. He’d hardly been able to believe his ears when the kid had asked him to go, and he hoped desperately that it might be some sort of sign that the boy was starting to think more highly of him. Or, well, at least maybe not quite as poorly. Either way, he had been determined not to let him down.

He’d sworn up and down that he would be at the meeting; he’d even gone so far as to boast about it to Mandy the last time he dropped Nathan of at Barry’s, all puffed up and pleased as anything at the thought that Nathe clearly wanted him to become a more active part of his life. She had rolled her eyes at him, of course, and given him a look that clearly said that she would believe he’d be there when pigs flew, but it was no matter – his son wanted him to be his father, and he was going to do everything he could to make sure that faith was not misplaced.

By the time Gaz staggered into the lobby of the school building, his legs were aching from the punishing speed at which he had jogged the last leg of the journey, and the tips of his ears and his nose were nearly numb with the chill. He fumbled with clumsy fingers for the scrap of paper balled up in his back pocket, and as he caught his breath, he quickly scanned the slip for the number of Nathan’s teacher’s classroom. He was nearly an hour later than Nathan’s scheduled timeslot, but with any luck, the old bird would be running late. Parents loved going on about their kids, right? Surely someone would have held her over at some point during the night?

_Miss Isabelle French,_ the paper read. _Room 307._

Spotting a rather run-down looking staircase off to his left, Gaz began taking the steps two at a time; by the time he reached the third floor, he was even more winded than he was when he began. The thought occurred to him then that perhaps Dave wasn’t the only one who could do with a bit more exercise in his life, but before he could recuperate enough to begin searching for Miss French’s room, a door opened at the end of the corridor, and Mandy emerged, followed closely by Barry.

Gaz’s stomach plummeted to somewhere around his knees, and a rush of heat that had absolutely nothing to do with his exertion flooded his face. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath. He’d missed it. He’d missed the conference.

He’d promised Nathe he’d be here to meet his teacher, and he’d _missed_ it.

Mandy had taken notice of him by then, of course, and the expression on her face was one with which he was painfully familiar – disappointment, resignation, irritation. He’d let their son down again, and now came the part where she refused to allow him to forget about it.

“Well, well. Nice of you to turn up, then, Gary,” she called from the other end of the corridor, and Gaz watched, bristling, as Barry placed a cool, protective hand on the small of her back.

“Yeah, well. Said I would, didn’t I?” Gaz replied, his jaw stiff and his stride cocky as he made his way toward her.

“That you did. Only you’re too late – now _what_ time was our appointment?” Her brow arched as she condescended to him, Barry’s mouth curled in the echo of a smugly amused grin, and Gaz’s blood boiled.

“Don’t you talk to me like I’m a fucking child – ‘now what time what our appointment, Gary?’ I know bloody well when our appointment was!”

Mandy folded her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes. “Well, clearly not as well as you thought you did because you’re going on an hour late! And ours was the last one of the night – that’s it, you’re out of time.”

“Hey – I said I’d show up, and I did! I’m here, aren’t I? That counts for something, don’t it? Walked all the way, too, in the cold an’ all,” Gaz sneered, listening to his own voice slowly rise in volume and reverberate down the long hallway. He wasn’t cold anymore. He could feel his heart pounding thickly in his chest, and the smooth look of righteousness on his ex-wife’s face was doing nothing to calm it. “You knew I was coming, too – I told you last week I was coming. And you knew I had to sell m’car to pay last month’s arrears. Did ya ever think to yersen, ‘Oh, maybe I ought to offer to pick up old Gazza, so that _my kid’s dad_ doesn’t have to run ‘cross town in the dark when it’s fucking _freezing_ out!’?”

“Come on, Gary, this is a school – let’s try to keep it clean, all right?”

The gentle admonishment from Barry was the last straw. Gaz felt his hands ball into tight fists, and before he knew it, he was crossing the remaining distance between himself and the arsehole (who at least had the decency to drop the holier-than-thou act long enough to throw up his hands in defense of his face).

“Oi, you bastard – !”

“Gary, stop!”

“Everything all right out here?”

Quite unexpectedly, a headful of russet brown curls poked out from behind the doorway, inserting itself squarely into what had very nearly become a brawl in the abandoned corridor. Gaz yanked himself back in shock, stumbling and narrowly avoiding running smack into the strange woman in his eagerness to give Barry the beating he’d been asking for since the day they had met.

“Don’t worry, Miss French – Gary was just leaving,” he heard Mandy reply. Her voice trembled with upset, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel overly guilty. “No need to trouble yourself.”

Once he managed to regain his balance, he began gearing up to give the nosy interloper a piece of his mind – he’d been _this_ close to _finally_ putting that bloody tosser in his place – but the moment he met her gaze, he felt all of his pent-up aggression and bitterness and resentment dissipate, blown away by her shockingly blue eyes like dandelion fluff caught in the breeze. Gaz felt his jaw go a bit slack, feeling deflated and oddly weak. _Surely_ this wasn’t –

“It’s no trouble at all! Hello, there – you must be Nathan’s father! I’m Belle French. It’s such a pleasure to meet you!”

It was! This was his kid’s _teacher_!

When he’d read the name “Isabelle French” on the appointment slip Nathan had given him a week ago, he had immediately created a rather unkind image of a bitter, withered old marm clad head-to-toe in heavy wool cardigans and opaque stockings, perhaps with a pair of bifocals and some orthotic trainers thrown in for good measure. The woman standing before him, however, hardly fit his stern-faced vision; this woman was positively radiant.

Thick, shining, auburn curls framed a rosy-cheeked, heart-shaped face. Brilliant blue eyes sparkled merrily at him, and the sweet bow of her lips quirked upward pleasantly at the corners.

Gaz blinked back at her, his brain still trying desperately to catch up to this new development. Why hadn’t Nathe told him how _fit_ his teacher was? Might’ve taken a minute to change his shirt before he came if he’d have known…

“Gary!”

The sharp reprimand in Mandy’s voice cut through the smile-induced stupor that had settled into his brain, and Gaz had the decency to blush. Just how long had he been standing there gaping at the girl? He shook himself a bit before extending his hand toward her.

“Gaz Schofield,” he offered, fighting down a rush of pleasure as she shook his hand. Her skin was warm and silky-smooth to the touch, her fingers slim and dainty and tipped with glittery silver nail polish that caught the light when she moved. “Look, I, erm – sorry I’m late, I got…distracted.”

Regardless of the uncharacteristic stammer, the excuse sounded worthless even to his own ears. He had gotten caught up in rehearsals, that was all, but of course, he couldn’t tell anyone there that. For the first time, he felt a flare of anxiety in his stomach as he considered what Miss French might think of his tardiness, but when he met her gaze once more, he found nothing but polite acceptance there.

Mandy, of course, was another story.

“Distracted? An hour late, and that’s all you’ve got to say for yourself? You got _distracted_?” She scoffed and turned to address the other woman, the picture of concern. “Don’t you pay him no mind, Miss French, he’s not involved in Nathan’s schooling. Don’t let him keep you – you should go on home.”

Gaz could feel his expression twisting into a sneer at the jab, but before he could bite back a retort, Miss French replied, “Well, it certainly seems as though he’d like to be involved in Nathan’s schooling. I’m well acquainted with disinterested parents, Miss Latimer – I see it all the time, and in my experience, if they don’t want to be involved, they don’t even bother showing up to things like this.” She said all of this rather matter-of-factly, her tone and expression bearing no reproach while still managing to convey a sense of finality. There was no aggression there, nor was there any room for further discussion.

“Are you still interested in meeting with me, Mr. Schofield?” she continued, directing her attention to him once more. Her smile was warm and welcoming.

He nodded vigorously, taking a step toward her. “You’re fucking right, I am – Nathe’s just as much mine as he is hers, and I think I ought to know how he’s doing.”

Miss French positively beamed at that, completely unbothered by his vulgarity, and Gaz was far too distracted by its brilliance to notice the exaggerated eye-rolling Mandy and Barry were currently exchanging. “Excellent – I thought so. Please, come in,” she said, gesturing for him to enter the classroom. “It was a pleasure to meet you both,” she added as she glanced back at the disgruntled couple. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Latimer, Mr. Smith.”

No one could have said that she wasn’t perfectly pleasant, the picture of courtesy, but her bid goodnight also could not have been mistaken for anything other than a summary dismissal.

This bird was a bleeding _marvel_.

Gaz didn’t even attempt to tamp down the cocky grin splitting his face as he watched Barry take ahold of his girlfriend’s shoulder and begin to steer her gently away. He felt as though he had grown a foot taller in the last five minutes. When was the last time someone had recognized that he actually wanted to be a good father to his boy? He’d been told since the day he found out Mandy was pregnant that he’d never be up for the job, that he’d turn out to be just as useless at it as his own father had been, and for a long time, he had believed that. Admittedly, he wasn’t going to be winning any Father of the Year awards anytime soon, but that didn’t change the fact that he had truly wanted to be there for his son. The fact that someone else might be able to see that was a rather foreign concept, and it made him feel as though maybe, someday, he might actually be able to do it.

“All right, Mr. Schofield – why don’t you take a seat and we can have a chat?” Miss French suggested cheerfully, shutting the classroom door behind her.

“Right. Sure.”

However, as Gaz turned to take in the classroom in full, he realized exactly what she seemed to be asking of him; at the front of the room was a heavy wooden desk, overly large and several decades out of fashion, which was covered in teacher-ly stacks of papers and clearly meant for her. However, there were no chairs set up across from the desk, nor were there any tables at which they might both sit and, as she put it, “chat.” The only other place for him to sit, it seemed, was one of the student desks.

Gaz shifted from foot to foot, feeling his ears burn. The desks were clearly old and somewhat fragile, the sort with chipped wood veneer writing surfaces attached to a plastic chair by way of a rusting metal arm. He may not have been a particularly large man, but he’d not sat in one of those since he was a lad. Sitting in one now, he was sure he would look right foolish, all elbows and knees.

But the little school teacher was looking at him expectantly, her eyes twinkling with good humor and her mouth twisting into an expression that looked like she was trying to swallow a grin. Trying desperately to project an air of nonchalance, Gaz looked directly at her as he gingerly lowered himself into the desk closest to hers. This failed somewhat as the chair let out a piteous groan and wobbled precariously, which caused her shoulders to begin to shake with mirth.

“Yeah, yeah, all right – you’ve had your little laugh,” he said, equal parts amused and mortified. He was quite certain that he was stuck now; he had no idea how he was going to get back out of this blasted thing at the end of the night, but Miss French was positively beaming and giggling and, Jesus Christ, she was stunning. He supposed he could suffer a little indignity if it was going to make her smile and shake like that.

“Yes, yes, of course, you’re right, I’m so sorry. That’s terribly inappropriate of me. It’s just…usually I meet with parents in the reading nook over there – lots of chairs, normal-sized. I’ve never had anyone just…sit in a student desk without question before. I suppose I ought to have stopped you but…you looked so determined!” She snickered again, and Gaz could feel the expression of shock on his face as he followed her gesture toward the back of the room.

If he had bothered to look farther upon first glance, he would have seen that a small space at the back of the classroom had been converted into a cozy little reading area. It was equipped with mismatched, brightly patterned rugs, several well-stocked bookshelves, and three worn armchairs, all clearly secondhand and clashing horribly with each other. The walls were covered in a collage of academic posters, depicting things like grammar rules or favorite characters from popular children’s books, as well as several pieces of framed student artwork. A mobile of the solar system made out of painted foam craft balls hanging from the ceiling completed the space, and Gaz couldn’t help but feel like he had walked out of the frigid spring air of Sheffield and into some sort of idyllic picture of what a classroom ought to look like.

Was this the sort of thing teachers did for their students these days? He didn’t think so.

Startling out of his musings, Gaz slid carefully out of the desk, somehow managing to keep it from getting caught on his hips as he did so. “So you, erm, you do all that?” he asked, nodding at the reading nook.

Miss French nodded brightly. “Yes. It’s not quite finished yet – I still want to get another shelf and maybe some cushions for the floor… The students have been fighting over the chairs.” She settled into one of them as she spoke, crossing her legs at the knee and folding her hands primly in her lap. “Now, why don’t we get started?”

“Right, yeah, ‘course.” Gaz hurriedly lowered himself into one of the armchairs opposite her and sank several inches as the worn cushion gave way beneath him.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that, over all, your son has been doing quite well this year,” she began. “Has he been showing you the marks that he’s been earning?”

He clenched his jaw and ran a hand over his hair, ruffling it as a distraction from his own embarrassment. “No, uh… He doesn’t talk to me about stuff like that.”

The teacher smiled kindly at him, nodding to herself. “Don’t feel bad, Mr. Schofield. It’s certainly not unheard of for children his age to not want to share their school work with their parents. Most of the time, it has little to do with the parents and more to do with the students not wanting to open themselves up to criticism.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. Since you haven’t seen them, I will tell you that Nathan has got a real gift for literature. He consistently earns some of the highest marks in the class for reading and comprehension, and he spends more time back here than any other student I have. That’s his favorite chair, by the way,” she said, gesturing to the broken-down armchair into which Gaz was currently sinking.

“Nathe likes to _read_?” he echoed, blinking owlishly back at her.

“Oh, yes! And not only does he enjoy it, but he’s quite good at it. He’s an extraordinarily empathetic young man, Mr. Schofield – he understands the depths and the motivations of the characters we read about at a level that is rather rare for someone his age. He…has a talent for people, for seeing them as they really are.”

Gaz’s chest felt warm and overly tight, as though his heart had swelled and was pressing firmly against his ribcage. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he looked down at his knees, unable to bear Miss French’s warm, soft eyes on him as she praised his son.

“That’s, uh – ” he coughed, clearing his suddenly gravely throat. “ – that’s good, aye?”

“It’s very good – it’s a skill that will serve him well, I should think.” Her tone grew just the slightest bit more serious, however, as she added, “I do want to speak with you about Nathan’s scores in maths, though. He’s been struggling a bit with the last several chapters. I’ve spoken with him about it and suggested that he might start meeting with a tutor after school, but he’s not been very receptive to the idea.”

“Kid gets embarrassed easy,” Gaz said. “He’s probably worried the other kids would take the piss.”

Miss French nodded slowly. “Yes, that’s what I thought, too. Perhaps you could talk with him about it? He’s a very bright boy, Mr. Schofield. I’m sure he could improve with just a little extra help, maybe once or twice a week. But I can’t require him to go. He’d have to do it on his own.”

He shook his head. “Nah, if you’re trying to get him to do something, having me butt in would do nowt for you. He’s got…friends, though, right? Do any of his mates go?”

For the first time all evening, Miss French looked uncomfortable. She drew her lower lip between her teeth, nibbling carefully as she clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap. “Well, you see… That was another thing I hoped to speak with you about. Nathan is very well-liked by the younger children – he protects them, helps them stand up to the older kids who give them a hard time during recess.”

Gaz frowned. “Yeah, and…that’s a problem how?”

“Oh, it’s not!” she replied quickly. “It’s just that…the reason why he spends so much time with the younger children is that his classmates… Well, Nathan seems to be having some trouble making friends.”

“What? No, Nathe’s always had plenty of mates. He’s been running around with the same kids since he was just wee. You just must not be seeing, is all.”

She smiled sadly. “No, Mr. Schofield. I’m afraid that’s not it. See, most of the time, I spend the students’ lunch period preparing for the afternoon and having my own lunch, but one of the lunch monitors was out sick the other day, and I was asked to fill in. While I was there, I saw Nathan get turned away from a table of his peers. They said…” Miss French paused and swallowed thickly, refusing to look him in the eye. “They said they didn’t want to sit with 'the criminal's kid.'”

All of the air seemed to fly from Gaz's lungs at that, and he felt as though he had been punched in the gut.

"The criminal's kid."

That's what they called his boy. Nathan didn't have any _friends_. And it was _all his fault_.

"I... I take it this is the first you've heard of this," she continued, after allowing her words to hang in the air for a moment and receiving no reply. "It came as a surprise to me, too. He's never said anything about it to me. Well, of course I noticed that he was a bit on the quiet side, tended to keep to himself a bit in class, but I suppose I just assumed he was shy."

"Nathe's not shy," Gaz replied numbly. The joints in his hands were beginning to ache at the intensity with which he was balling his fists together in his lap.

"No, you're right – I don't think he is. I stepped in, of course, when I heard what they were saying to him. Gave the other boys a good scolding. But Nathan - "

"He was mortified." He looked up then, making contact with the schoolteacher's overly bright blue gaze. "I'd bet you anything he looked like he wanted to die. Didn't he?"

A flush of pink bloomed across Miss French's cheekbones, and she had the good sense to look ashamed. "Yes. He was humiliated. Seems that I...unintentionally made it worse." She fell silent for a moment. Then, shaking her auburn curls back from her shoulders, she sat up a little straighter and added, "You understand I had to say something, though – regardless of his personal circumstances, those boys had no right to speak to Nathan in that way. I've never tolerated bullying from my students, and I have no intention of letting that type of behavior slide simply because it makes Nathan uncomfortable when I intervene. The reason why I wanted to bring it up tonight is that I think you might be able to help."

Gaz laughed humorlessly. "Oh, yes, _that's_ a right good idea. How exactly am I supposed to 'help' then, eh? Seein' as it's my bloody fault he's in this mess. Sounds like maybe I'd be better off staying far away if I wanna 'help,'" he scoffed.

"So it _is_ you the other children were referring to," Miss French murmured gently, refusing to rise to the bait. "I wasn't sure."

"And who else would it be, then, luv?"

She offered him a close-lipped smile and replied, "I'm not sure - I try not to make assumptions about the lives of people that I know nothing about."

"Well, aren't you just a right _fucking_ saint."

She didn't respond with anything other than a brief quirk of her eyebrow. Instead, she just continued to look at him, her expression open, her eyes soft. Gaz gritted his teeth and looked away, staring at a poster on the wall without really seeing it.

He had always been an excellent judge of character. He could look a man in the eye for less than a minute and know if he could be trusted. He could give a woman a once-over and know just what she was after. It was a skill he'd learned early on in life; when you grew up the poor, you learned right fast how to separate the good apples from the bad. You learned how to tell who was looking to take advantage and who wanted to help.

This Miss French, with her sweet, lilting voice, her kind gaze, her gentle smile... She showed no signs of judgment, no hint of reproach. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him like that. And the fond way she spoke of his boy...

She was a good apple.

"I won't bore you with all the tawdry details, Miss French," he said at length. "Mostly cuz there ain't much to tell. Harrison's was going under long before it ever shut down. Everyone's hours were getting cut. Was a couple years ago, right after me and Mand divorced, I was flat broke, and I wanted to keep seeing my son. I did what I had to do."

The way the sweet little schoolteacher's brows rose in sympathy made Gaz's chest ache and his cheeks burn. "You couldn't pay the maintenance arrears?" She sounded as though her heart was breaking as she spoke.

“Aye,” he replied. “Like I said, did what I had to do. So y’see, don’t think there’s much for it – Nathe’s mates are right. I _am_ a criminal.” Gaz coughed loudly then and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can’t help you, Miss.”

“I disagree,” she said, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward over her knees. “You see, Mr. Schofield, at the end of the day, I don’t give a hang about whatever mistakes you may have made in the past. When I look at you, I don’t see a criminal. I see a father who loves his son, who would do whatever it takes to make sure he’s looked after. If you were really as worthless as you seem to think you are, you wouldn’t have shown up here tonight in the first place. You wouldn’t have asked about Nathan’s schoolwork or his friends. You wouldn’t _care_. I know that you care, Mr. Schofield. It’s written all over your face. But children…sometimes they need a more explicit demonstration.”

Gaz gritted his teeth and averted his gaze. “Got something in mind, then?”

“Yes. _Talk_ to your son. Ask _him_ about school. Ask _him_ about his friends. I’m just the teacher, after all. Nathan’s the one that really matters here, right? If you show an interest in his life, maybe give him a chance to talk about how his peers’ comments make him feel, he’ll know. It will show him that you care. Now, does that sound like something you can manage, Mister Criminal?” Miss French grinned, cheeky and utterly dazzling, and he felt the corners of his own mouth matching hers automatically.

“Yeah. Think I might be able to do that.”

“Brilliant! I think you and I are going to get along famously, Mr. Schofield,” she declared, clapping her hands.

“Aye, Miss French. I think so.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaz and Belle continue to get to know each other...perhaps better than either of them were expecting.

When Gaz had first committed to attending this meeting, he hadn’t expected to be there for longer than it took to walk through his son’s school report with a graying old bat and then listen to the same canned lecture she had likely spewed at every parent who came to her classroom that night about the importance of parental involvement in education. However, as it turned out, once the business of Nathan’s grades and social life had been addressed, he found that he couldn’t quite keep himself from lagging behind.

Belle French was a fucking dream. He’d never met anybody like her.

She was a fantastic conversationalist once she began to slip out of her “teacher” persona – sweet and attentive and funny as hell, topped off with just a touch of wickedness and a warm laugh that sent tingles along his every nerve. Her flirty little floral skirt belied the conservatism of her white, high-collared blouse, and although the thing left miles of her glorious legs on display, she’d covered them in black tights. The more they talked, the more frequently he caught his eyes wandering, and even in this own mind, it said a lot about his opinion of her that he even attempted to tear his gaze away and stay focused on her face.

The truth was that he felt quite out of his depth with her – she was such a far cry from the kind of women he typically surrounded himself with. And yet, miraculously, she didn’t seem bored with him yet, so he was quite keen to continue getting to know her for as long as she would allow.

So far, he’d learned that she’d grown up in Australia the daughter of a florist and a librarian, that she had a passionate love of books, and that this was her fifth year teaching but only her first year at Nathe’s school. He, in exchange, revealed that he had never lived anywhere other than Sheffield in his life and that he was rather fond of fixing up old cars (when he had the money, that was). Just as she was about to ask more, however, the clock on the wall chimed nine o’clock.

Miss French gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Oh, God – is that really the time?”

“Yeah, it is. Fuck,” Gaz swore as he rose to his feet. “‘M sorry, Miss. You must’ve places to be – your mister will be wondering where you’ve got off to.” The words jumped from his mouth before he had the chance to reign them in, but as he watched the delicate flush bloom across the little schoolteacher’s cheeks, he couldn’t bring himself to regret them. Sounded like a line even to his own ears, and a clumsy one at that, but so what if it was? Gaz had never been the type of man to by shy about when he found a woman attractive. And this woman…

Well, she was in a class all her own, wasn’t she?

“There’s no mister, Mr. Schofield,” she replied, biting her lip cheekily and holding his gaze out of the corner of her eye. “Not that it’s any of your concern, that is.”

Gaz smirked and licked his lips, fighting back a chuckle. “Right. ‘Course it’s not.”

“So will you be walking me to my car then to make up for your impertinence?” She looked like she was fighting back laughter, too, but he continued to be encouraged by the lovely pink blush that had begun to spread from her cheeks down to her neck. Her chest was covered by her blouse, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the color had also spread itself across her collarbone, and how satisfying would _that_ be, to make such a bird a bit…hot under the collar?

Before he knew what was happening, he was helping his son’s teacher into her thick black coat and escorting her out of the long-darkened school and across the small car park reserved for staff members. The temperature had dropped even more since he had arrived over an hour ago, but he barely noticed. Miss French was laughing at something he had said, and her arm kept brushing against his, and the way her auburn hair shone in the moonlight was a sight that he might have been inclined to write poetry about, were he that kind of man. The cold could just go sod off, for all he cared.

“Where are you parked, then, Mr. Schofield?” she asked as they approached the only vehicle remaining in the lot, a rickety old thing with rust forming ‘round the wheel wells and mismatched hubcaps.

“No place – I walked,” he replied.

Miss French’s eyes widened, her jaw going slack in indignation. “You _walked_? In this weather? I hope you live nearby!”

“Other side of town, actually. Nowt I could’ve done about it any road – I needed to be here, and I haven’t got a car anymore, so - ”

“You can’t walk all the way across town in nothing but that jacket! You’ll freeze to death!” she protested. Her blue eyes flashed darkly in the streetlights, and Gaz was almost taken aback by how vehemently she seemed opposed to the idea. “Come on, then – I’ll take you home.” With an air of finality, she turned and opened the front passenger door.

“You don’t wanna do that,” he replied quickly, taking a step back and away from her car.

“What I don’t want is for one of my students’ parents to catch their death trying to walk miles in the dark, in the cold, when I could stop it.” Miss French arched an eyebrow at him and gestured firmly at the open car door. “Now, in you get.”

“Look, Miss, I’m tellin’ you, you don’t wanna go there. To my flat, I mean. The area, it’s not – ”

“Not what?”

“It’s not _decent_ , all right?!” Gaz’s face burned with the heat of embarrassment in spite of the chill, and his eyes darted around the car park, looking anywhere but at the indignant face of his son’s teacher. “It’s a bad area, a real dump, and you… I mean to say, well, you’re - ”

“I’m what?”

“You’re wearin’ a skirt with fuckin’ daisies on it!”

Miss French tilted her head and narrowed her eyes and oh, fucking hell, he’d really done it now. “Mr. Schofield,” she began, her voice dangerously even and sharp as a blade, “do you mean to imply that because I’m a woman who likes to wear skirts that I don’t know how to look after myself?”

“Of course not! Jesus bloody Christ, Belle, I just mean…you wouldn’t think much of it, is all.” She crossed her arms, and Gaz had the distinct impression that this was exactly what it felt like to be a misbehaving student in her class. “You’re the poshest thing I’ve ever seen ‘round here. That place would do nowt for you,” he added.

“Well, then, let me tell you something, Mr. Schofield. Whether I’m…posh or not, my thoughts are my own. Now. Get. In the damn. Car.”

There was no more room for argument. He had no desire for this beautiful, educated, _marvelous_ woman to come to know the type of flat he’d been forced to move into when Harrison’s went under, but what was he to do when she looked at him like that?! He supposed he could just walk away – there wasn’t much the wee girl could do if he really wanted to be an ass. But he had the sneaking suspicion that this particular bridge wasn’t one he wanted to burn. If he continued to refuse…would she ever speak to him again?

He really wanted her to speak to him again.

With a grimace, Gaz slid into the open passenger seat and shut the door.

 

* * *

 

“Did you call me Belle?”

Gaz startled. It had been a several minutes since either of them had spoken about anything other than driving directions to his flat. He’d been beginning to wonder if somehow he had managed to fuck up his chances to getting to know her better – wouldn’t have been the first time his stubbornness had gotten him in trouble.

“What’s that?”

Miss French kept her eyes forward, her fingers fluttering uneasily on the steering wheel. “Back there – you called me Belle,” she repeated. The tension in her shoulders told him that she was uncomfortable, but her expression was unreadable.

“Well…that’s your name, innit?” he replied defensively. “It’s what you said when you – you said your name was Belle. Right?”

She sighed, and had it not been dark, Gaz suspected that he might have caught a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. “Yes. I…I guess I did,” she admitted. “But you’ve been calling me Miss French all evening. Even when…even when we stopped talking about Nathan. Why call me Belle right then?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Guess I just wasn’t thinking.” And he really hadn’t been. It had just felt right, in that moment, to call her by her first name rather than her title. He’d not been talking to her like his son’s teacher then; he’d been talking to her as…her.

And that made her uncomfortable.

“Won’t happen again,” he assured her, his voice going flat as he gazed out the window.

“No, it’s…it’s fine!” she said quickly. “I don’t mind, really. It just caught me by surprise. Maybe just…just not when I’m at school, all right? Or in front of your son.” She cast a quick glance at him then, out of the corner of her eye, and Gaz could see that the ghost of a smile was begging to pull at her mouth.

His own mouth quirked a smile in reply. “‘Course. Then you probably ought to start calling me Gaz, eh?”

“Do you not prefer Gary, then?” Belle asked.

Gaz grimaced. “Fuck no – no on calls me Gary but me mum and me ex-wife. Well, no one I _like_ anyway. Mates call me Gaz.”

“And is that what we are? Mates?” He watched as she nibbled on her lip, watched as it glistened in the passing streetlights with the slick pink gloss she was wearing. For a brief moment, he lost himself in a vision of cradling her beautiful, heart-shaped face in his hands and taking that lip between his _own_ teeth, but the tone of her voice gave him pause. She hadn’t sounded so… _unsure_ all evening. He needed to tread carefully.

“If you like,” he replied, hoping that he sounded much more nonchalant than he felt.

“What would _you_ like…Gaz?” she returned, and the sound of her warm, accented voice wrapping itself around his name had all of his hopes of playing it cool flying out the window.

“I’d like to buy you a drink. Belle.”

Her eyes were on him again, their expression soft and hopeful and just a little bit said, but before he could even attempt to interpret what that look was supposed to mean, she was looking away and pulling her rickety old car over in front of his building.

She put it in park and immediately took her hands off of the steering wheel to fold them tightly in her lap. And Gaz swallowed. This wasn’t going to go well.

“Mr. Schofield…” Belle murmured, her eyes firmly trained on her hands, and he felt his stomach plummet.

Of _fucking_ course.

“Ah,” he said, clearing his suddenly dry throat. “So that’s how it’s gonna be then, eh?”

And why the fuck wouldn’t it be? He’d only just met the girl, after all – he hardly knew a thing about her, but he knew that she was brilliant and beautiful and kind and…and what did she know about him? That he was a fucking unemployed criminal, that’s what. What would _she_ ever want with _him_?

“All right, babe, I can take a hint.” Cradling his bruised ego, Gaz grabbed onto the door handle and made to get out of the car.

Her soft little hand gripped the sleeve of his jacket with surprising strength before he could get the door all the way open.

“No, please, just…listen,” she pleaded, and he glanced back to see her impossibly blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. “You’re a parent of one of my students. You must see what kinds of problems that would cause, what kind of questions would be asked.”

“It’s just a drink, love,” he pointed out.

“Maybe.” She hadn’t let go of his jacket. In fact, she was rubbing her thumb back and forth across the smooth, well-worn leather, and he could feel the warmth of her through the material. “Maybe not.” Gaz felt his gaze falling to her mouth, where her lips were slightly parted and shining invitingly. Was her breath getting faster? “It would still be…inappropriate,” she added. Yes, the little schoolteacher was definitely out of breath.

“Is that the only reason?” Gaz said softly. The air in the car felt close and overly warm, and as he inhaled, he could sense the faintest fragrance of vanilla. Vanilla and...strawberries. _God_ , she was so fucking pretty. And so fucking kind.

And so fucking close.

“I - ”

He swallowed her response as he brought his lips to hers.

He could feel her stiffen beneath him in surprise, could feel the tension in her mouth and in her jaw and in her neck, but sooner than he had imagined, she seemed to melt against him. Her slick lips became soft and pliable beneath his, and the hand that had been caressing his forearm slid to his neck. Releasing a soft groan, Gaz pulled away for a brief moment only to slot his lips more securely against hers, taking her plump lower lip between both of his and sucking ever so gently. He felt a tremor run through her in response, her fingers pulling on the hair at the nape of his neck, and hellfire, this was the best idea he’d ever had.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, however, it was over.

Belle squeaked in the back of her throat, suddenly releasing her grip on his hair and instead using that hand to shove insistently at his shoulder, breaking the kiss. Burying her face in her hands, she was quick to scramble away from him, pressing her back against the door on her side of the car.

“Gaz – Mr. Schofield, I _can’t_. We just can’t,” she cried, clearly flustered and perhaps a bit sad. “It’s just – my _job_ , and your _son_ \- ”

“Fuck,” Gaz swore under his breath as he scrubbed his flushed face with his hands and tried to bring his heart rate back down to something resembling normal.

He’d gone and fucked it up again. Here he was, presented with something that had the potential to be good, and he’d gone and thrown it away for _two bloody seconds_ of –

“…I have to go,” she was saying, grabbing onto the steering wheel like it was a lifeline. “You have to go inside.”

“Right.” Gritting his teeth, Gaz climbed out into the frigid night air, and a shiver wracked his frame. Instantly he wished he was back in that shit car, with its roaring heater and its even warmer occupant…whose mouth tasted like sugar and promise and whose nails inflicted the most exquisite pain along the base of his scalp and whose eyes seemed to see straight through to the heart of him in a mere instant and whose –

But she’d turned him out.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that if he only thought about it for a minute, he would see that she had been right to do so. But at this moment…

Turning back briefly, he added, “G’night, then. Miss French.”

“Sleep well, Mr. Schofield,” she replied, refusing to meet his eyes.

“And Belle?”

That got her attention. She turned at looked at him, her eyes tired. “Yes?”

“Be careful. I know…you can look after yersen and…you got your own thoughts and whatnot but…just be careful. Unsavory folk about, eh?”

She may have turned him down, and fuck, did that sting his pride, but he still felt strangely protective of the girl. She was sweet and wee – she’d not stand a chance if some tosser caught her unawares, and that what a crime that would be, if her light should be at all dimmed by trying to help him.

Miss French smiled wanly at him. “I will. Thank you.” That smile was like a small and beautiful little apology stretched across her mouth, and he felt the pull of it to his very core.

She pulled away then, driving off into the night.

And Gaz thought he might be a changed man.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who is interested, I have created some reference looks on Polyvore for this fic, specifically for Belle. I'm a very visual person, and it really helped me to get into the right mindset for describing clothing that such a character could have worn in 1997 to actually have images to work from. 
> 
> To see Belle's outfit for Chapters One and Two, you can go here: http://www.polyvore.com/chapters_one_two/set?id=174555275


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaz encounters his son's lovely teacher out in public for the first time since their brief...indiscretion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see Belle's outfit for this chapter, you can go here. :)
> 
> http://www.polyvore.com/chapter_three/set?id=174556573

Belle French hated pubs.

Nothing about them was appealing to her. For one thing, they were entirely too loud, the atmosphere often thumping with the bassline of whatever tasteless music selection the management seemed to fancy at the moment, which made it essentially impossible to have a real conversation with anyone. And of course, if it wasn’t music, it was the din of the local barflies who had come to watch the match with their mates. Also, the air was often overly warm from the press of intoxicated bodies clamoring for the attention of the overworked bartender and choked with the smoke of their cigarettes. But the worst… Oh, the worst was the stench of beer that always somehow managed to make its way into every crevice of the places, stale and sour and generally nauseating.

Which was why, if the decision had been hers to make, Belle would certainly not have chosen a _pub_ as the venue for her monthly girls’ night with Jean and Jean’s two long-time friends Sharon and Beatrice. But it had been Jean’s turn to pick the place, and she had been in the mood for something a bit more…wild than their usual fare, and so here she was, in her tightest dress and highest heels, perched up on a sticky vinyl barstool and feeling horribly guilty for silently praying for the outing to be a quick one.

The other ladies, however, seemed to be having a marvelous time. Three fruity cocktails a-piece had Sharon and Bee holding hands out on the dancefloor, laughing raucously and trying (with only moderate success) to keep from spilling their drinks on each other as they shimmied and bobbed their heads to the tune of the heavy, swinging rock music blaring from the speakers mounted to the wall. Jean hadn’t quite made it to that point yet, but she was well on her way, chuckling into her whiskey sour as she took in the antics of her friends, the deep red flush spreading across her neck and chest evidence of just how deep she was in her cups.

Belle had to admit, they made quite an amusing spectacle, but she was more than content to sip delicately from her glass of rosé and remain exactly where she was. The sooner the three of them tuckered themselves out, the sooner she could go home.

To that end, she was about to encourage Jean to join them on the dancefloor when a sharp gust of frosty air wrapped itself around her stocking-clad legs. Belle shivered, her head turning toward the door reflexively in surprise. She wasn’t certain what she had expected to see when she glanced up, and indeed, the somewhat mismatched group of men that had entered wasn’t anything particularly strange. David, Jean’s husband, was among them – nothing odd there at all. But when her gaze landed on the last member of their party, her heart jumped into her throat.

“Oh, my God.”

Jean quirked her eyebrows and glanced at Belle. “Now, then. What’s got your knickers in the twist, luv?”

Belle flushed in a way that had nothing to do with her wine and quickly turned away from the open door, plastering a smile to her face. “Nothing! Nothing, I’m fine.”

Jean waved her response away, clearly not fooled. “Oh, give over – what is it? I think I know you better than that by now.”

“It’s really nothing, Jean, I just…I know one of the men that just walked in,” Belle replied. “He’s one of my student’s fathers.”

_Oh, yes. One of my student’s fathers. One of the most devoted fathers I’ve ever met. An unemployed man with a criminal record. An unemployed man with a gloriously smug little grin and lovely dark eyes and strong, steady hands. A bloody fantastic kisser…_

“Really?! And the gentleman caught your eye then, did he?” Jean grinned knowingly, waggling her eyebrows at her over the top of her whisky glass. “Well, it’s about time, if I do say. You’ve been here over a year – you ought to be noticin’ a man or two by now. Just tell me he isn’t a married…?”

_Ha! If she only knew…_

“Oh, no – no, not married. Divorced.”

“Ah. Not ideal, but not bad, neither. Which one is he then?” And before Belle could distract her, Jean was craning her neck around Belle to get a look at the doorway. When her gaze finally landed on the group of men, Belle watched as her eager grin froze in place, and Belle’s heart began pounding against her ribcage. Jean had lived in this town her whole life; she knew everyone, and everyone knew her. The chances of her not putting it together were – “You don’t mean that group, do you, Belle?”

Belle sighed resignedly and nodded. “Yeah. It’s not important, though, Jean, let it go. I told you, he’s just the father of one of my students. It’s nothing.”

Jean paused for a moment before straightening and leveling a perfectly unamused gaze at Belle. “Is that student Nathan, by chance?”

Belle clenched her jaw. The displeasure in her friend’s face couldn’t have been any clearer if she had been carrying around a neon sign that read, “Belle, you’re an idiot.” Or something to that effect.

“Yes, it is. What of it?”

“Gaz,” Jean said slowly. “ _Gaz_ is the one you’re making cow eyes at?”

Belle reached across the table and landed a smack to the other woman’s arm. “Jean! I am not…making cow eyes!” Belle could feel her cheeks burning furiously as Jean stared her down. “I _said_ it’s nothing. I just met him the other night at Meet the Teacher Night.”

“And?”

“And…it was late and it was cold and he walked all the way there, so I drove him home.”

Rolling her eyes, Jean knocked back the rest of her drink in one swift motion. “So? What was the ‘oh, my God’ about then?”

Belle shifted her gaze to her wine glass and began running the tip of her finger around the rim. “We…parted on awkward terms.”

“Jesus Christ!” Belle startled as Jean slammed her glass onto the surface of her bar in front her. “Did that horny bastard come onto you?”

“What?! W-Why would you think that?”

“Because it’s _Gaz_!” Jean replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“No. No, it was nothing like that. We just…had a difference of opinion. And I…threw him out of my car.”

_I threw him out of my car after we snogged outside his flat like a couple of love-struck teenagers._

“Well, he must not hold a grudge because he hasn’t stopped looking over here since he walked in.”

Belle gasped at that, whirling around so fast that she nearly pulled a muscle in her neck in her eagerness. “What?!”

Jean’s eye-roll at her rather telling response was almost audible. “Oh, I do NOT have the energy for this tonight!” she proclaimed, sliding not-so-gracefully off of her barstool and tugging on the sleeve of Belle’s denim jacket. “C’mon, Belle, forget about it – let’s just go dance, eh?”

“No, that’s all right – you go on,” she replied, shooing her away. “Go have fun with Sharon and Bee. I’m just going to finish my drink and then head out for the night.”

Jean frowned and sighed dramatically. “Oh, all right, fine – be that way then. I need to go show off for my husband anyway. Like he’d even notice…” The last bit was murmured under her breath as she walked away toward the dancefloor, and Belle felt a small twinge of guilt for having never asked her friend about how she and Dave had been getting on recently. She knew that their relationship had been a bit rocky as of late, and Jean had been reluctant to open up about it. Vowing to herself to remedy that the next time she saw her, Belle brought her mostly full glass of rosé to her lips and drank deeply. It was time to leave…

\--

It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to go to the pub after their rehearsal that night. They had decided to end a bit earlier than usual after Gaz had cocked up the timing on that one shimmy move for the thousandth time, which had distracted Lomper and caused him to smack Gerald in the face with his belt as he tried to remove it. That, of course, had devolved into a cursing match, and it was then that Guy had suggested that they take the rest of the evening off to blow off a bit of steam before their dress rehearsals, which were planned for the next day. Gerald had been hesitant to allow it but had eventually agreed under the guise of wanting to “get a look at the venue” in which they’d be performing in just a few days’ time.

Gaz, for his part, had been the first to second that suggestion, and ten minutes later, they had all piled into Lomper’s and Gerald’s cars for the drive across town. Now, as the ragged group made their way from the entrance to a nearby cluster of tables, he knew he’d made the right call. The smoke, the blaring rock music, the raucous customers… Pubs had always been his second home. He hadn’t gone much since he’d lost his job – hard to afford alcohol when you could barely afford rent and groceries – but he thought that perhaps one beer couldn’t hurt. Not when soon he’d have enough for far more than that…

“Hey, Dave,” Horse said just then, nodding at the man to get his attention. “Looks like your missus is here.”

“Eh?” Dave frowned and glanced across the bar. Gaz followed his gaze and landed on the image of Jean in a tight black skirt and bright pink blouse, laughing and dancing with the same two women he’d seen her with at the Chippendales’ show. “Thought she was at home,” Dave murmured, his confusion somewhat tinged with hurt as he took in the sight of his wife clearly enjoying herself, not a care in the world.

Gerald scoffed at that, and Gaz felt his hackles raise in Dave’s defense as Gerald replied, “Well, can you blame her for wanting to get out and have a bit of fun? Must be a right bore sitting ‘round at home all night, waiting for your sneaky arse to come home.”

“Sneaky, am I? And just when were you planning on telling _Linda_ what you’ve been up to, then, Gerald?” Dave shot back. Gaz smirked. The teddy bear had claws this evening, and Gerald looked appropriately chastened. “Right – that’s what I thought.” Dave turned to Gaz then, his voice a bit less sure as he asked, “Think I ought to go say hi, then, Gaz?”

“Don’t fucking know, do I?” Gaz said, reaching into his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes and knocking one out into his hand. “She’s _your_ wife – do whatever you want.”

The other man glanced back at the dancefloor, his expression wistful and a bit sad. “Maybe I better not bother her… Looks like she’s having a good time. Don’t wanna ruin her fun.”

“Hellfire, Dave, man up and go talk to your wife if you want to talk to your wife! Don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.” He placed the cigarette between his lips as he dug around in his pocket for his lighter. “Besides, I - ” Gaz trailed off as a glimpse of shiny auburn hair caught his attention out of his corner of his eye.

It was Belle. Belle French was sitting at the bar.

“What? What’re you looking at?” Dave demanded, attempting to follow his gaze.

The others had caught on to the exchange by then, and rather conspicuously, they all stared in the same direction, their eyes landing on the same petite woman with the thick auburn curls in the high pony tail nursing a glass of something-or-other at the bar and looking somewhat lost.

“Ohhh,” Lomper sighed, the first to break the strange silence. “She’s lovely.”

“What, her? The lass in the jacket at the bar?” Dave asked. When Gaz nodded, he added, “Oh. That’s just Belle.”

Gaz’s jaw dropped, causing him to lose his luckily unlit cigarette. “You know her?!”

“Yeah, ‘course. She’s Jean’s mate. New t’ the area – met her down at Asda. We had her ‘round for dinner couple months ago.” Dave said all of this quite casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for him to have beautiful little schoolteachers ‘round for dinner and how on earth could Gaz not have known that? “Wait, how do _you_ know her?”

“Met her at the school. Meet the Teacher thing I told you about for Nathe.”

Dave laughed at that. “Pull the other one, Gaz! You mean _Belle_ is Nathan’s teacher?”

“Just said so, didn’t I?!” Gaz replied.

“He’s right lucky. Belle’s brilliant.”

Gaz rolled his eyes and reached back into his jacket yet again to pull out his cigarette pack. “Yeah, I noticed, thanks.”

“Bet that’s not _all_ you noticed, neither,” Guy said meaningfully, shooting Gaz a wink and a lascivious quirk of his eyebrows. Lomper snickered in response, and both Gerald and Horse appeared to be hiding smirks in their beers.

Feeling a furious blush spreading across his face and into the tips of his ears, Gaz finally lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Why?” Guy barked a laugh and pointed in the general direction of the bar. “When she’s looking right over here.”

Gaz couldn’t have stopped himself from looking up if he’d tried.

 _Well, who’d have thought it?_ For once, the guys weren’t completely taking the piss – she was, indeed, looking over at him, her sweet little chin tucked into her shoulder, her pale face growing pink at being caught out. Before he managed to grip the reins of the impulsiveness that always seemed to take over when Belle was around, Gaz caught himself raising a hand to wave at her.

And wouldn’t you know that the lass waved right back?

The warmth in his stomach and the quickening of his heart was almost enough to distract him from the fact that his mates had been watching the entire exchange, and they were _losing their fucking minds_.

“Hey, there, would you look at that!” Horse proclaimed, giving Gaz’s shoulder a hearty pat and grinning from ear to ear.

Almost at the same time, Guy chuckled, “Look there, Gaz – you’ve got an admirer.”

“That a bit of a blush, Gazza?” That one came from Dave and was accompanied by a poke to the cheek and a rather aggressive rub on the head. “Why, I never!”

“Shut up! All of you!” Gritting his teeth, Gaz jerked away, his hands flying up to right his now ruffled hair. They all laughed uproariously in response, ribbing him with their elbows and grinning broadly. “Fucking tossers, the lot of you.”

“Well, don’t leave her waiting, whatever you do,” Gerald chimed in as his gestured toward Belle’s seated figure at the bar. “Lass like that has got better things to do than to hang about waiting for your sorry arse all night!”

Dave, bloody traitor that he was, seemed to agree, for before Gaz could come up with a suitably biting retort, he grabbed ahold of the shoulders of Gaz’s leather jacket and playfully shoved him in the direction of the bar. “Go on, mate!” he encouraged.

It occurred briefly to Gaz that this was the longest he had seen his best mate smile in weeks, and if anyone asked him why he finally gave in and began making his way across the crowded pub, that was what he would have said: because for whatever reason, it seemed to make Dave happy. But he knew better.

Belle was here. And he couldn’t stay away if he tried.

“All right, all right, Jesus. I’m going!”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the huge gap of time between updates, but unfortunately I don't have much of a choice at the moment. I am currently in my hardest years of grad school and have very little free time, even in the summers (which is when I usually write). I have no plans to abandon this story and actually already have the whole thing planned out, but it's going to come in fits and spurts. For anyone who is still hanging in there with me, thank you. The fact that anyone wants to read this means the world to me. You're all wonderful. <3


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who happens to still be following this story, your endless patience is forever appreciated.

Belle sighed softly into her wine glass, watching the fog from her breath rapidly recede. He was coming over here. And she’d _known_ that he would. She just _had_ to wave back at him. Because she was Belle French, and didn’t she just _thrive_ on a bit of risk-taking? This man had “risk” written all over him, from his black leather jacket to his lean, scrappy build to his sly little grins. The fact that he was her favorite student’s father was only the cherry on the sundae, really.

 “All right, Belle?” he greeted, sliding into the space between her and Jean’s abandoned barstool.

 She offered him a wan smile and hoped her expression had managed to twist itself into something vaguely pleasant. “Hi, Gaz,” she replied.

It must not have worked, however, because she could see the instant his guard went back up. He hunched his square shoulders and leaned heavily on the bar in front of him, closing himself off almost entirely to her. “Didn’t, ah, didn’t expect to see you here.” His voice was tense, his eyes a bit bewildered.

A twinge of guilt tugging on her gut, Belle took a deep breath and turned toward him. He thought he’d be welcome at her side – her coy smile and wave had seen to that. He hadn’t been expecting the frosty greeting, and frankly he didn’t deserve it. She’d hoped that after their...moment of indiscretion the other night that they might be able to at least become friends. Anything more than that would raise all the wrong questions, and she had worked too hard to get to where she was now to be accused of treating her students unfairly because of a dalliance with one of their parents. But Gaz was a good man, she was certain of it, and being unkind to him as a punishment for _also_ being exactly the sort of man who tended to encourage her to make impulsive decisions was also unfair.

Allowing herself to smile at him, for real this time, she said, “I don’t normally drink on school nights, but my friend Jean’s been itching for a night out for a while, and she works weekends, so…really the only option. What…what brings you here?”

That seemed to put him a bit more at ease, for he offered her a small smile and shrugged affably. “Oh, I’m here all the time, me. Fellas and I’ve had a bit of a long day, so thought we could use a pint or two.”

“Oh?” Belle quirked her eyebrows at him. David had come in with him, and she knew from Jean that he’d been on dole for months. “What’ve you been up to, then?”

A flash of…something flickered across Gaz’s face, but before she could spare a thought for what it was, he quipped, “Oh, you know, this an’ that. Job club. Lining up for a century at the unemployment office just to talk to some bint who don’t want to be there no more than you do. Bloody taxing stuff.”

She could feel the corners of her lips tug upward in spite of the vagueness of his response. “Right…”

“So, can I, uh, get you a drink?” he asked.

“I’ve already got one,” she said, raising her glass at him in a mock toast.

“Right.” He nodded once, his eyes darting around the pub as though a topic of conversation would emerge from the woodwork if he looked hard enough. “‘Course.”

A bit of warmth bloomed in her belly at the lost expression on her new friend’s face. Jean had always left her with the impression that Gaz was a smooth-talker, dead charming in an exaggerated kind of way, but it was clear from the way he was acting tonight that at least part of that charm was carefully cultivated and unaccustomed to being derailed. It was a bit…sweet, really, seeing more of what she expected was the real him peeking through in his moments of uncertainty.

Taking pity on him, she added, “But I could use the company. If you don’t think your friends will miss you too much.”

The muscles in his jaw and around his eyes visibly relaxed in relief, and he offered her a little upward quirk of his lips and a shrug. “Think they can look after themselves for a bit,” he replied.

“Well, good. Have a seat.” Belle used her now half-empty glass of wine to gesture at Jean’s barstool, scooching it out from under the bar counter with one of her dangling feet. She didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the motion, surreptitiously tracing from her sky-high black heels up her stocking-clad leg and ending somewhere near the hem of her short plaid dress. Feeling an unwitting wave of heat rising from the back of her neck, she breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he seemed to shake himself free and quickly scrambled onto the proffered seat. It was somewhat comforting to notice, however, that he seemed just as embarrassed as she, judging by the pink flush darkening his cheeks and the fine pointed tips of his ears.

“So…erm… How’ve you been? Other than…busy with this and that,” she asked, eager to move as quickly as possible through the awkwardness. Not for the first time, she found herself regretting allowing him to kiss her the night of the conference. They had spoken so easily to each other before then, but now –

“Uh, good. Real good.”

– now it seemed _this_ was the best they could hope for.

Scrambling for another topic of conversation, she mentioned, “I don’t know if Nathan’s told you, but he finally did sign up for the after-school tutoring program.”

It must have been the right thing to say, for the change the mention of his son made in his demeanor was striking and immediate. He sat up straighter in his seat, turned more fully toward her, and couldn’t seem to stop the grin spreading across his face like a ray of sunshine. “Yeah? He did?”

“Yeah, it seems to be going well so far! I’ll know more once he takes the next unit exam, but his homeworks have already begun to show improvement.”

Gaz’s smile widened, obvious pride beaming out of his expression, and Belle felt a strange warmth begin to burn in her chest at the sight. “Well, that’s…that’s aces. I…I talked to him, like you said. Don’t know if it helped any, but I did it.”

“Oh, Gaz, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad!”

Gaz started then, his eyes going a bit wide as he glanced down at the bar. Following his gaze, Belle realized, to her mortification, that in her enthusiasm and that strange, sudden surge of affection for the man before her, she had reached out and covered one of his hands with her own. In an instant, she registered his warmth, his wiry strength – these were the hands that had helped her into her jacket that night, had held the door open for her on their way out of her classroom, had gently cradled her neck as his lips met hers in her car outside his flat…

She withdrew her hand as though his skin had burned hers.

A deep breath. A gulp of wine. A painfully awkward pause, and then –

“So, erm, how about you?” Gaz spouted, running his hands through his dark blonde hair anxiously. “How’ve you been?”

“All right,” she replied dumbly. Internally, she was fuming. _Why can’t we get this right?!_

He tried again. “How’s the whole…teaching thing?”

Belle let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding when she realized that this was something that she could actually talk about – work was a safe topic. His son was a safe topic. She could do this. “It’s good. I, uh, gave an essay exam today over a book the students just finished reading. I was planning on spending the evening grading them, but then Jean called, and I turned her down the last time she asked me to come out with her and Sharon and Bee, so I felt a bit guilty saying no again.”

Gaz’s eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. “You’d rather be at home grading _essays_?”

“I know, pretty dull, right?”

“A bit, yeah!” Gesturing vaguely in the air, he asked, “Pub not really your cup of tea?”

“Yeah, not at all. I just…guess I’m more of a ‘cuppa tea and a good book’ kind of girl,” she replied with a shrug. Wrinkling her nose, she added, “And I really don’t like beer.”

“Well, no one says you have to get beer at a pub,” he retorted. “You’ve got a…what’s this?” Gaz’s eyes went comically wide then dangerously narrow as he leaned forward to examine the drink in her hand. Making a noise somewhere between shock and disgust, he reached forward and tipped the glass toward him, bringing his face comically close to its contents. “Is that fucking _pink_ wine?!”

Belle didn’t know whether to be offended or to burst out laughing. “The term is _rosé_ ,” she declared, delicately yanking the glass back out of his grip and taking a self-satisfied sip.

“The term is _shit_ , is what it is!” he cried. At that, she couldn’t restrain her laughter and outright giggled.

“Oh, so no one says you have to get _beer_ at a pub, but there’s some kind of rule against rosé?”

“You’re damn right there is!” Gaz nodded once emphatically, as though the words she had just said were not a sarcastic quip but rather the deepest truth, as though in the last few seconds he had decided something profound and he was determined to act on it. He raised his arm and flagged down the bartender. “Hey, Bob – can I get two…oh, fuck, I don’t even care, just can you make this go away? Ta, very much.” And before Belle could even comprehend what he had done, Gaz had taken the half-empty glass from her and passed off to the harried, balding man on the other side of the bar counter.

Her jaw dropped as she watched the bartender nod and walk off with her drink. “Hey! That was my drink – I paid for that, you know!” The last bit she directed at the man next to her, who seemed completely unrepentant and, in fact, even more determined to make her see the error of her ways.

“Aye, which is why I’m paying for this one. Which, as you’ll see, is far superior to the frilly garbage you were drinking a minute ago.” Nodding at the returning bartender, he accepted two squat glass tumblers containing an anonymous caramel-brown liquid and several ice cubes with a muttered thanks.

“Perhaps I happen to like frilly garbage!” she cried.

This man was absurd! First he had the gall to _kiss_ her, his son’s schoolteacher (never mind that she had welcomed it, never mind that for the first several moments, she had reciprocated, had wanted it, had relished the feeling of his lips against her, his hands pulling her close…). Then he intruded on her girls’ night with her friends (which she didn’t particularly want to be at, but that was, again, beside the point) and he couldn’t even manage to hold a normal conversation without insulting her drink preferences, and now he had stolen the second half of her well-deserved glass of wine only to insist on buying her something he thought was somehow _better_?! Who did this man think he was?! Wasn’t he unemployed? What was he doing buying drinks for women he shouldn’t even be socializing with at pubs he wasn’t invited to?

_Oh, god. He’s unemployed. Wonderful. So not only am I accepting a drink from a student’s father who I am certainly not absurdly attracted to, but he’s also unemployed and is barely making enough on dole to support said son…who is my student._ Guilt roiled in the pit of Belle’s stomach as she watched Gaz slide one of the tumblers down the bar toward her, clearly offering it to her. “Gaz, please, I can’t let you – ”

“Already done it, though, haven’t I?” he was quick to reply, his tone allowing no further room for protest. “You wanna let it go to waste? You’re talking to a man with no job, remember?”

Belle clenched her jaw, her gaze flicking back and forth from the drink to his face.

Realizing that he had just touched on (one of) her sources of hesitance, Gaz offered her a small smile, his warm, brown eyes softening in something that looked dangerously like fondness. “C’mon, luv,” he murmured. “What’s the harm? It’s just a drink.”

“…fine.”

She couldn’t continue to refuse him. With a reluctant upward quirk of her lips, she picked up the glass of ambiguous liquor and inclined it toward him. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” He clinked their glasses together, and they each took a sip, Belle much more tentatively than he.

Sugar. Bitters. Whiskey. Strong, but not overly strong. Sweet, but not cloying. It coated her tongue thoroughly, burned on the way down.

She had to admit, although it packed a bit more of a punch than she had originally signed up for on a school night, it wasn’t half bad.

Next to her, Gaz was watching her intensely, running his tongue delicately over the fullness of his lower lip to catch a droplet of condensation that had collected there. A flare of heat roared up from her stomach and across her chest at the gesture. She told herself it was the liquor that was the source of the sudden flush in her cheeks, on the back of her neck, but the way that heat eventually settled and pooled in her lower abdomen belied such an explanation.

“Well? Your verdict, m’lady?”

In an attempt to hide the sudden trembling in her fingers, Belle brought her glass to her mouth once more and took another sip. “…it’s good,” she admitted reluctantly.

A brilliant, wicked grin lit up his face immediately. “Bloody right it is! This is a proper drink, this.”

“It is,” she agreed, unable to prevent herself from answering his smile with one of her own. “But I still like my _rosé._ Just for the record.”

Gaz chuckled somewhat exasperatedly and shrugged, seemingly satisfied with the partial victory. “Ah, well. Never claimed to work miracles.”

For a moment, they were silent, enjoying their drinks, the quietness companionable and comfortable for the first time all evening. Belle found herself savoring it, this moment where it seemed as though they could return to the ease with which they had interacted with one another the first night they had met. Gaz may have been one of the most frustrating people she had ever encountered, but her assessment of him had not changed since that night. He was a good man. He was funny and generous, lively and incorrigible. They could be friends.

“So what’re you doing sitting over here all by yersen when Jean and all your mates are out there?” he asked after a spell, nodding in the direction of the dancefloor. The three women stood right in the very center, shouting along with the lyrics of whatever driving rock n’ roll number the house was currently pumping through the speakers and hanging onto each other in their merriment. Belle grinned at the sight and shook her head.

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

“I don’t believe that for a second!”

She started at the emphatic tone of his voice. “Oh, no?”

“Not for a bloody second. Every time I seen you, you been in these sky-high heels, right?” Gaz reached out with the toe of his boot and bumped lightly into one of Belle’s dangling feet, and she tried not flush at the unexpected contact. “Bet you’re real light on your feet to get on so well in these all the time.”

“Ha! Well, I suppose you got me there. I used to dance ballet, growing up. In comparison to _pointe_ shoes, heels aren’t that much of a trial. And I just really like the way they look, so learning to walk in them well was worth it for me.” At that moment, Belle caught a glimpse of Sharon swaying and swinging her hips in a smooth, rhythmic pattern to the beat of the baseline in the song. Even in her clearly inebriated state, she exuded confidence and self-assurance, as though reveling in her own sensuality. It was clear that she was having the time of her life and knew she looked amazing doing it, and Belle felt more than heard herself sigh somewhat wistfully.

“ _That_ is what I mean when I say I’m not much of a dancer,” she added, bringing his attention to the display that Sharon had now drawn Jean into. They were playing off each other and the beat of the music, laughing and pretending to flirt with one another. “I don’t know the first thing about dancing like _that_.”

Gaz’s adams apple bobbed in this throat, and she wasn’t sure if it was due to discomfort at seeing his friend’s wife showing off so blatantly in the middle of the crowded pub or if perhaps it was something else. If perhaps he was picturing _her_ dancing like that. Either way, his noncommittal response of “ah, I see” provided little insight.

“What about you? Do you dance?” she asked.

Another flash of…something crossed his face – embarrassment? Amusement? Chagrin? – before it quickly disappeared, and he nodded. “Yeah, just a bit. You could say I’ve been…learning.”

“Well, then, shouldn’t _you_ be the one on the dancefloor?” Belle said primly, taking another sip of her whiskey drink. “Let’s see your moves.”

“What, like this?” And with that, Gaz hopped off of his barstool and did something that looked like a haphazard moonwalk toward the dancefloor, pausing now and then to throw in an out-of-time shoulder shimmy, before crossing his right foot over his left and spinning all the way around.

Belle burst out laughing, putting down her drink to clap wildly as he grinned and bowed several times in a row, veritably glowing in the light of her amusement and approval. “Bravo! Bravo! See, _this_ is how it ought to be! I couldn’t compete with that.”  

At that, his proud grin seemed to melt and soften into something almost intimate, something simmering with warmth and confidence. It was a something that was very much like the thing she had sensed in him the night they had first met, that had called to her in that cozy car parked outside his flat. And he was getting closer now, just as he had that night, slowly approaching her with measured, careful steps until he was mere inches away.

“Prove it,” he murmured, his tone somewhere between a challenge and a secret, as though he had just told her something in the strictest confidence while also daring her to share it with the whole room.

Across those few inches that now separated his torso from where she sat on her barstool, she could feel the heat of him, could smell his warm, sharply masculine scent. Like tobacco and soft leather and worn cotton flannel, strangely comforting and more than a little enticing. She didn’t know what he was playing at, invading her personal space like this, but wasn’t this sort of thing also why she was so drawn to him? Gaz was clearly a man who pushed boundaries, who delighted in defying others’ expectations.

And when was the last time Belle had allowed herself to push a few boundaries?

Gaz extended a hand to her, smiling expectantly. “C’mon, then, Belle. Let’s live a little, eh?”

Belle gulped at the sound of her name on his tongue. She couldn’t say no. She just couldn’t.

Had any of her students referenced “sparks flying” in their writing for her class, she would have left them with a comment about trying to avoid using such clichés in the future. However, the moment she allowed Gaz to take her hand in his and draw her onto the dancefloor, she knew she would stand corrected from now on. Flying sparks was not a cliché, it was an experience as real as breathing. Frissons of electricity sizzled along her palm where it touched his and along her knuckles where his thumb stroked softly, absentmindedly. Her mouth ran dry and her heart beat a tattoo against the inner surface of her ribcage and _oh god, this is so dangerous, why am I letting him touch me, what happened to being a professional?!_

But she didn’t let go. She didn’t look away. She allowed him to lead her out onto the floor, allowed him to pull her close and settle his hands on her waist, allowed her own hands to rest delicately on his shoulders. And she wasn’t sure anything could have pulled her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see Belle's outfit from this chapter, you can go here. 
> 
> http://www.polyvore.com/chapter_three/set?id=174556573


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